


Crystalised

by The_Girl_With_The_Who_Tattoo



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angry Sex, F/M, Flashbacks, M/M, Mental Anguish, My First AO3 Post, PTSD John, Personal Demons, Personal Growth, Post-Reichenbach, Season/Series 03 Spoilers, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-15
Updated: 2014-01-16
Packaged: 2018-01-08 20:07:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1136835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Girl_With_The_Who_Tattoo/pseuds/The_Girl_With_The_Who_Tattoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It has been two years since the death of Sherlock Holmes; and while John Watson has tried to accept that fact, his mental state is deteriorating faster than ever. Even with the promise of a new life in front of him, he can never fully recover from his time spent with the world's only Consulting Detective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! Welcome to my first fic, and also my first post here on AO3! I will try and update as often as possible. 
> 
> I will update tags/characters/relationships with ever chapter posted so as not to spoil anything to come!
> 
> For the most part this fic will parallel some basic plots from all 3 series (so yes they may be series 3 spoilers) but for the most part I'd like to have the majority be original content.
> 
> Yes there will be cases, though they won't happen until later on.
> 
> And as always, I neither own nor represent anything from the actual BBC production. 
> 
> Any questions, comments, or concerns you may of course post here, or find me on Tumblr under The-Girl-With-The-Who-Tattoo 
> 
> I hope everyone enjoys!

"Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?" 

John stared, mortified at sight of the barely visible silhouette of Sherlock Holmes towering atop the St. Bart's building, phone pressed to his ear, and gazing back down at him. John could see that his long, dark coat was unbuttoned. It gently swayed with the breeze along with his usual scarf.

He shakily forced out a breath of air. The trail flowed from his mouth as if he'd taken a drag from a cigarette. The smoke drifted up into the cold, cloudy London afternoon. 

"Do what?" John swallowed harshly. The response came as evenly as he could manage. He couldn't let Sherlock hear the fear in his voice at any cost. It would shatter the negotiation.

As a medical professional during war time, John had had the misfortune of being witness to some of his closest friends' and colleagues' attempts to take their own lives. So many times had John talked them down. Convinced them not to go through with it. To put the gun down and walk away. Remind them of their family back home. Their old life that was waiting for their return. It was all text book. Basic psychology he'd learned in conjunction with his medical studies at St. Bart's. 

He knew Sherlock would know this. He'd know all the standard phrases,  
'You don't have to do this.'  
'You have so much to live for.'  
'There are people who love you.' _I love you_

All precise reasons why he couldn't be typical. Sherlock would see through it before the words even left his lips. It would have to be different this time. But his past didn't matter now, and all the people before. The ones he saved. The ones he couldn't. They didn't matter. They weren't his best friend. They weren't Sherlock. 

"This phone call. It's... It's my note. It's what people do, don't they?" John could hear the trepidation in Sherlock's voice as it poured out of his mobile. 

A large knot formed in his stomach. The last time he felt like this was the night he had a semtex vest strapped to him. The night he and Sherlock almost died, together.  
"Leave a note when?" John's voice was unapologetically panicked. He was becoming very painfully aware that he was losing. Acting dumb about the danger that Sherlock was in was neither in his best interest, nor in Sherlock's. 

"Goodbye, John."

John's eyes grew large. Fire and fear raged through his body.

"No, don't." The last two words he would speak to his best friend. Not 'goodbye.' Not 'I'm sorry.' Not 'I love you.' 

No. Don't 

Sherlock tossed his mobile aside and took a step upward onto the ledge of the building. John's heart pounded uncontrollably behind his rib cage. He wanted to run. Wanted to be closer to Sherlock. Catching the detective was ludicrous, and obviously out of the question. John, who while often oblivious on cases, was not an idiot, and knew that this was not possible. Though in that moment that's all he wanted. To protect Sherlock, save him. At any cost.

Sherlock looked towards John, then down at his fate. John was frozen. Paralyzed. He felt a weakness in his leg, and swayed a bit where he stood. Up above, John watched as Sherlock outstretched his arms and slowly stepped off of the ledge. The doctor's heart stopped. He had failed.

"SHERLOCK!"

John's vision became blurred as he started to stumble towards the building where people had already started gathering in drones, blocking the view of the detective's lifeless body. He heard his own words echoing around him. Every gasp, and moan, and cry he uttered thundered through his head. Each step forward felt like he was going further, and further away. 

And then John was falling. Falling. Falling. 

 

*******


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John realizes he was dreaming, but what happens when he can't get Sherlock out of his head when he's awake?

John sat straight up. His breathing was uneven, and forehead was moist with sweat. His eyes were crusted over. He realized then he'd been crying. Crying again for Sherlock Holmes. Two years later, and John Watson wondered if it would ever stop. Despite the lengthy time, things remained as fresh to him as that wretched day had been.

Following Sherlock's death, the tabloids couldn't get enough media coverage. No matter where John looked, he saw Sherlock. Sherlock in his favorite coat and silly hat. Sherlock with his black ruffles and ever changing colored eyes. After some time the media storm calmed and people began to forget the detective, and his blogger. And while he was no longer being haunted by the familiar face of his once dear friend on every corner news stand, the pain never truly left John's spirit. 

Without warning, the corner of the darkened room was illuminated. John barely noticed. Mary turned in the bed to face him. Her short blonde hair crunched softly on the pillow with her movement. 

"Is everything okay dear?" Mary squinted her eyes against the jarring brightness of the lamp and reached out to place a hand on John's thigh. His focus harshly snapped back to the present. 

"Um... Yes. Yes. I'm fine." John shook his head gently and turned to give her a weak smile.

"Sorry for waking you. It's just the ah, bad dreams. Flashbacks. You know." He looked down, seemingly ashamed at his own raw admittance.

"Bad dreams about... Sherlock?" Mary said the name with as much hesitation as she could, knowing that specific topic could possibly make things worse for John. She gently stroked his leg to try and sooth him.

"No." John replied sternly, staring straight ahead. 

"Not. Sherlock."

Mary flashed John an apologetic smile and started to slink back down into her side of the bed. She turned back to her original position facing away from him, and reached for the lamp. 

"I am sorry love." She whispered sincerely.

"Let's try and get some sleep though, eh? Doctor McHannon's out tomorrow and they've got you seeing double patients."

"Yeah, right." John mindlessly muttered in agreement. 

The light that filled the small room instantly dissipated with a quick clicking of the lamp switch. All that was left was the faint light green glow of the digital alarm clock on the night stand. It wasn't bright enough to see clearly, but provided enough light that he could make out Mary's figure next to him. He heard the fabric rustle as she tried to find a comfortable position in which to resume sleep. John sat motionless. Alone in the dark as thoughts and images played in his mind. All of which involved Sherlock bloody Holmes. 

He saw the day they met in the lab at Bart's. The very first day. God, that was ancient history now, but he saw it, clear as day. Like it had only happened. He remembered the way Sherlock had acted like such a smug bastard, but still was the most attractive man John had ever seen. John Watson, who was not a gay man, but rather someone who could certainly appreciate the beauty of another human being, despite the fact they were both of the same gender. 

Oh and if only Mike Stamford had known what he set in motion that day. This was all his fault, really. If John had never seen him that day, never even stepped foot out of his front door, none of this would have ever happened. John would never have met Sherlock Holmes, or moved into 221b Baker Street the very next day, or became a companion to the 'consulting detective,' (which, by the way, wasn't even a real thing; just something Sherlock and his arrogant, fascinating, and amazing mind came up with to feed his already enormous ego.)  
If John would never have met Sherlock Holmes, he wouldn't have started a blog detailing nearly every aspect of their ridiculous lives together, and the adventures they frequently had that usually sounded more like something out of a book than real life; and that blog wouldn't have become an international success with thousands upon thousands of readers every single day. There would also have been no cases solved, no criminals apprehended, and no lives saved.  
More importantly, if John had never met Sherlock, he would never have stumbled into the life of the one person who understood completely what it was like to have an addiction which needed to be fed. Someone who knew what it felt like to be a junkie to a certain lifestyle. The person to whom John realized he had come to love unconditionally, in every genuine sense of the word. And that is exactly what caused John so much pain. Knowing, and accepting that fact made everything terrible inarticulately worth it. 

Back to reality. He was doing it again. Wasting his time thinking of the man who after everything they had been through together for the past God knows how long didn't care enough in the end to let him in to his secrets. John had always known Sherlock's death wasn't a typical suicide under typical circumstances, much unlike the tabloids so loved to report about. If Sherlock would have been truly suicidal, John would have noticed the signs. He was still a doctor for Chrissakes... 

Or would he have?

He needed to get this out of his mind, or else go mad. Two years on, and this should not be happening. He should not be still haunted by painful memories of his dead best friend. This wasn't healthy, and it needed to stop. He needed to accept the fact that Sherlock was gone, and he would just have to move on with his exceedingly normal, boring life without him.  
The bedroom was silent with the exception of the light sounds of Mary's breathing. John looked down at her, her back still turned towards him. He carefully inch-wormed himself down into the laying position, matching her form. He propped himself up with one elbow and continued to watch her sleep. Mary, the woman who had helped him through these last two years, and who had kept him as relatively sane as possible, so as to not hurl himself off the top of a building as well. 

He placed his free hand lightly on her small waist. Mary mumbled pleasantly under her breath. She was already fast asleep again, though who knows how long John had sat there in darkness. He left his hand at it's location for some time before beginning to caress the soft fabric of her t-shirt. Suddenly he was back running through the streets of London with Sherlock trying to simultaneously stop a killer and avoid their own arrest by police not under Detective Inspector Lestrade's division, and who were, quite frankly, not impressed with the pair, or their track record. The cold night air burned John's lungs with every quickened breath he took as they ran. He was smiling. Sherlock was yelling something about a short cut through some shrubberies, and John felt alive. Truly alive. 

_STOP. IT._

John nearly had to slap himself to bring him back. To get Sherlock and their adventures out of his head. Two years since he'd last been on a real, proper case, and he wondered how he'd survived his mundane life before them.  
Greg had asked him out on a few cases following Sherlock's death, but it wasn't the same. John would show up alone, inspect a dead body, endure listening to Anderson trying to unintelligibly mumble his way through the crime scene, and then he'd leave just as alone as he'd come. It infuriated John that even without Sherlock he couldn't enjoy being useful on cases anymore. Everyone that worked the cases now were just so, ignorant. John often thought that this is what Sherlock must have felt like being surrounded by people all the time. 

_ENOUGH._

John's mind raged with mixed emotions. He ran his hand down Mary's torso and up under her shirt. He had to lean in to get a longer reach. John's palm stroked the smooth skin of her hips, and over her stomach. His fingertips grazed over the hard curve of her hip bone. Mary began to stir. She turned back slightly towards John, a sleepy smile on her face. 

"John, it's the middle of the night." She mused playfully. 

"You want to do this now? Really?"

John didn't reply in words, only gave a mischievous smirk in return, and pushed Mary's hips downward, into the mattress. His ran his hand down the length of her thigh and started curving around to feel the inner flesh as well. John moved his body in closer to hers until his chest pressed against her back. 

"John..." It wasn't a protest, so much as a surprise. John was not typically this way with her. Any lingering reservations Mary might possibly have had disappeared the instant she felt his warm lips on the back of her neck. His fingers danced playfully around her private area. 

John's mind saw Baker St. The layout that ironically, matched his and Mary's new home. Sherlock was laying on the couch in the same striped robe that he always wore. He hadn't spoken for a few hours, which wasn't entirely uncommon. For all John knew, he could have actually been sleeping. But no, that wouldn't be like Sherlock at all would it? Sherlock didn't actually sleep. He didn't have to after all, he wasn't human. Machines don't need sleep. John looked up, but ultimately wasn't able to see the detective's face from his usual chair across the room, so he just wen't back to his blog. The blog that now hasn't been updated in over a year. 

"Of course!" Sherlock practically leaped three feet in the air with the intensity of his sudden realization. John, who was of course at this point used to these type of outbursts merely looked up from his laptop to entertain the detective's findings. 

"John, we dismissed the wrong person. It's the gardner! He's the murderer! The game is on, let's go!"

"The gardner?" John closed his laptop and quickly got up from the chair to grab his coat. 

"Yes, yes, of course it's the gardner! Didn't you notice how well their arrangement of Dahlia's were doing? It's a non-regional flower, especially for this time of year. Far too cold for them. So it's safe to assume they're probably getting a little stronger fertilizer, if you catch my drift. Also, in 1947 an American woman was gruesomely, and quite honestly fascinatingly, murdered and the body, what was left of it anyway, left in an empty lot. The press began calling her the 'Black Dahlia.' So either it's one rather interesting coincidence, and let's face it, the universe is rarely so lazy. _OR_ , the most obvious, and correct answer I might add, is that the gardner is the murderer." Sherlock clasped his hands together excitedly in front of his face, Cheshire cat sized grin on his face. His dark curls bounced with each step as he headed for the door. 

"So, what you're just going like that then?" John motioned towards Sherlock to make him aware, as he rarely was, that he was still in his robe.

"Oh John, crime doesn't stand still for fashion!" He slipped the robe off his shoulders and let the silky fabric slide down his long arms before tossing it on the couch and grabbing his heavy dark coat from beside the door.

"GET OUT OF MY HEAD!" John was once again ripped from his memories and coming to grips with the present time. He had control of it before, kept everything inside, but this time was too much. 

"John?" Mary tilted her had back, startled by his outburst. John's fingers were still inside working her, and she moaned lightly while still looking back to him for confirmation that he was okay. His head was buried in her neck, kissing and sucking the skin there. He didn't answer. She heard rustling behind her, then felt the warmth of him against her parts. She inhaled sharply as John maneuvered himself into her without a warning. He moved quickly behind her, his grunts and moans louder than normal. Mary tried to move to make the position more comfortable for the both of them, but John moved his arm to block her, holding her in that exact position. His breathing became more labored, and his movements more erratic. Mary felt the rush of warmth inside her as John's final gasp rang out, filling the dark room.  
He waited only a moment before sliding himself out and turning to face the opposite direction. He felt ashamed, dirty. Mary didn't deserve someone as unstable as he very clearly was. She was far too good for that. 

Both laid in silence, each staring in opposite directions of the room.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the events of the previous evening, John reflects on his new life without Sherlock, and tries to convince himself that this is how he'll have to survive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who's viewed and commented/left kudos thus far. I'll try and update as often as possible!

The bed was empty when John awoke. Almost immediately he heard the familiar sound of what was presumably Mary in the kitchen making the morning tea. He carefully swung his legs to the side of the bed, noticing a bit of pain in the one. The same one, it was always the same damn one.  
After taking a long moment to stand John slowly limped to the adjoining bathroom. Typically he'd have his crutch nearby in case of need, but he had been doing okay recently. No outbursts, no bad thoughts, no pain. He'd been doing as well as someone in his situation could have.  
Reaching into the medicine cabinet John pulled out the little orange bottle of Tricyclic with his name on it. It'd been ages since he'd had to take one of those little bastards, but after last night, it was clear that he was not a stable man.  
He tilted his head back and swallowed the little pill dry before grabbing his crutch from the hall closet and heading into the kitchen. Mary's back was to him when he entered. Images from the previous night flashed into his head and he felt another stab of shame. He limped to the table and sat down. The morning paper was folded neatly in front of his place mat. He picked it up and began to flip through it before Mary could turn around to see him. He couldn't bear looking into her face right now. John was a strong man, stronger than most in fact, especially when it came to control and discipline, but last night he had let his demons win, and that was unacceptable. 

Mary set down a cup of tea in front of him. John didn't move the paper or look up, but offered his thanks to her and continued reading.

"Are we going to talk about what happened last night?" Mary leaned with her back against the counter. Her arms were outstretched with her hands on either side of her. Everything about her body language said, 'I'm open, let's talk.'

John looked up sheepishly from his paper, but didn't lower it from in front of him. 

"Well we.. Made, love." He did his best to sound as if what happened was something as normal as that. 

"Made love?" Mary raised an eyebrow. 

"Yes. You said you wished I was more, spontaneous, and well I tried that, so if you didn't like it, ah, then we don't have to.. Do that again." He took an awkward sip of tea.

"John, dear, I wasn't talking about the act. I mean, I like it a bit rough every now and again, but..." 

He nearly choked on the tea.

"What worried me wasn't your actions. It what was going on inside your head. You wake up in the middle of the night screaming, and it's not like that was the first time either, this happens all the time John, and I'm worried. I want to make sure you're doing okay. I know these last two years have been so hard on you since... You know. But, I think if you're still struggling this much, maybe you should consider going back to see Ella. I'm not a doctor John, but something definitely has to change. For your sanity." The concern was engraved across her face and it killed John to look at her this way, especially knowing the damage he'd caused. 

John said nothing for a long while, then finally backed his chair out to stand. Crutch in hand, he limped to Mary and had to raise up a bit onto tip toe to kiss her cheek. He took her hands in his and looked up.

"Mary Morstan. You know I'm not the type of man that finds these things easy. Something did happen last night, and for that I offer a thousand apologies. What took place was something that came from a dark place in me, that, up until last night I had kept in complete control. Please believe me when I say that I am truly sorry that you had to experience that, and you were not deserving in any way. And, with all of that said, I do ah, have one question..." John let the crutch under his arm drop to the floor. It landed with a sharp crack that echoed through the room. Never letting go of Mary's hands John lowered himself slowly until his good knee touched the hardwood floor. His breathing was slightly shakey from the pain of his other leg and the position he was forcing it into. 

"Would you, Mary Morstan, please do me the honor, of being my wife?" John smiled through the pain up at Mary who's eyes were welling at the corners. 

"And no rush on your answer, but this is actually quite uncomfortable." He gave a forced, pained laugh. 

"Oh John..." The tears were welling up more now and she helped to pull him to his feet. 

"I don't have a ring or anything yet, but I'll get one. I mean, that is if you say yes. And I didn't mean to put you on the spot or anything... It just kind of felt like the right time--"

"Oh of course I'm saying yes!" She grabbed John and pulled him into a hug. His arms found their way around her waist and Mary rested her head on his shoulders. John could feel the wetness of her tears through his t-shirt. They stood like that for some time until Mary looked up and noticed the clock on the wall above the table. 

"Ah! We're going to be late! We only have twenty minutes to get across the city, oh and look at the state of me, I'm in shambles!" She began to rush around the kitchen putting things back where they belonged, then hurried off toward the bedroom. John followed after, a faint smile on his face. 

The car ride to work was a pleasant one. More pleasant than he expected given what happened just a few hours previous. Of course he hadn't planned on proposing this particular morning either. Mary chatted away happily in the seat next to him. John was mostly silent for the ride, save for the occasional 'hmms' and 'yeahs.' He wondered what Sherlock would think of him proposing, or being a married man. Marriage was something Sherlock never fully understood. John knew this because he mentioned it on a fairly regular basis while working cases. In the end he guessed it didn't matter. Sherlock was gone. He wouldn't have to see John as a married man. The bastard wouldn't even have to go to the wedding. 

Work was typical as was the standard these days. Mary brought them Chinese on their lunch and they ate together in John's office. Typical lunch. His mind seemed calmer today. While Sherlock was never entirely out of his mind, he certainly seemed to have given John a bit of a break, which John was of course thankful for, though he knew it was just the Tricyclic doing it's job. Keeping everything unwanted out. 

At the end of the day there had been eight cases of flu, three cases of food poisoning, (not surprisingly from the same restaurant,) two STD scares, a case of stomach flu that turned out to be a pregnancy, a case of shin splints, and a few other miscellaneous cases that John couldn't remember. Typical, mundane day with typical, mundane people. All the faces were the same. The only thing that changed were the symptoms. John's patients had gone from unique, and different individuals he cared about helping, to cases. Their symptoms were the clues, and he had to solve the puzzle.

The car ride home was much more quiet than the ride in. Mary could tell that John was tired from the day, and rightfully so with all of the patients he had to see. Tomorrow would be a much more quiet day for him. Doctor McHannon would be back and John would only have to see his regular assigned amount of patients. John stared out of the window most of the way home. All of the streets were so familiar, and all had memories. The street lamps began flickering on one by one as their car passed. Night was setting in, and the air grew colder by the minute. John watched as the people walking started buttoning their jackets, and pulling their hoods up. He watched as Sherlock retied his scarf and turned his collar up.  
John's eyes grew wide and he suddenly sat up in the seat. He pressed his face against the glass as they passed the man. The man who couldn't be. 

"John? What's wrong?" Mary looked over at him quickly, then back to the road. John's heart was pounding and he felt nervous, God knows why. He twisted in his seat and looked out the back window, but couldn't see any sign of the detective through the crowd of people walking. John slumped back in his seat, facing forward. 

"Nothing. It's nothing. Has that shop always been there?" 

"What shop?"

"The ah, the chips one.." Lying was never John's strong point. 

"Yeah, s'far as I know it has. You sure you're okay?"

_There's nothing wrong with me. Just saw my dead best friend, that's all Couldn't be better._

"Yes. Of course. Just never really noticed I guess. We should go sometime." He looked over and smiled at Mary who was looking concerned from behind the wheel. 

They spent the rest of the ride home in silence. 

The little red light on the phone greeted them eagerly on their way in the door. Someone had left a message. This was a bit unusual as John carried his mobile on him at all times, and everyone knew to get hold of him there. Mary didn't get calls on a normal basis, so odds were the message was for him. 

Mary had put her things down already and went off to take a shower. John walked to the machine and pushed play. The message was form Greg. Apparently there was a case they were working on and were unofficially asking for his help. Of course he couldn't go into details on a recorded message, so John would need to call him for the full rundown. A case, right, that's what he needed after seeing what could only be a man who looked very similar to a certain smart arsed detective he once knew. 

John scoffed and headed in the direction of the bedroom. He rested his crutch against the wall just inside the door frame and limped to sit on the edge of the bed. He carefully removed his shoes leaving them just under the edge, and laid back on the sheets. He thought what he would tell Greg about the case, if he told him anything at all. John's first response was to ignore the message altogether. That wasn't his life anymore. He was a clinic doctor in London, who had just that morning gotten engaged. He drank tea in the morning, and turned in early at night. He had a boring life just like all of his neighbors. 

But who knew, it could be dangerous.


End file.
